


Dreaming of a White Christmas

by enigmaticblue



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Holidays, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three Christmases, two shared, one not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming of a White Christmas

**Part I**

 

The house was as silent as Buffy could have hoped by the time she brought Spike home. She wished that there were another place they could go that wasn’t so crowded. There were girls sleeping on every available surface—but not in the basement, and not in Buffy’s room.

 

Tonight, she would have to keep him in her bed.

 

“Where—”

 

It was the first thing Spike had said after she’d retrieved him from that cave. He hadn’t believed that she was real at first. His defiance—as wounded as he’d been—had nearly made her smile. Not that she’d told the girls this, but Spike was one of the people she was fighting for. Buffy needed him on her side for just that reason—Spike wasn’t a quitter.

 

Buffy would need every ounce of that determination from here on out.

 

“My room,” she said softly. “It’s the only one that doesn’t have guests, and you need to get cleaned up.”

 

“The basement,” he muttered, trying to pull away from her. “It’s just fine for me.”

 

“There isn’t a shower in the basement,” Buffy said in a whisper. “Come on, Spike. Don’t argue with me. You’re not up to it.”

 

On another day, at another time, Spike probably would have made an inappropriate comment, but he just winced. “Right then.”

 

Buffy supported him up the stairs, noting that he was dragging one leg. They took the stairs one at a time, Buffy waiting patiently for him to get both feet under him before they tried to go any farther. She tried to support most of his weight so that his damaged leg could rest a bit, but she didn’t say anything. It wasn’t her way.

 

She led him into her bedroom—the one that had been her mother’s. After the events of last spring, Buffy had thought it only right that she take this room. She and Dawn had been forced to use some of their meager funds on carpet cleaning, and Buffy hadn’t wanted to use the other bathroom. Her mom’s old room had the benefit of a private bath, one where Spike hadn’t—

 

Buffy refused to let that thought cross her mind. Not now. Not when everything was so different.

 

She managed to get Spike seated on the toilet, hoping that the girls hadn’t emptied the tank earlier. “Shower or bath?”

 

“I can take care of it, Buffy.”

 

“You can barely stand on your own,” she replied. “Shower or bath?”

 

“Bath.”

 

She started running the water.

 

The long silence hung between them, carrying that spark that had been engendered in the cave. When their eyes had met, and Spike realized that she’d come for him. Buffy wondered what exactly he’d seen, what emotion had he been able to read? Because she’d been so glad to see him, she’d been rendered speechless, unable to even give him a few reassuring words.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.”

 

“Don’t be. You had your hands full with that thing my blood called up.”

 

Buffy could hear the self-loathing in his voice. “That wasn’t your fault.”

 

“Wasn’t it? They used my blood to call it, Buffy. They—”

 

The First had used him, period. Used him to kill, used him to turn, and then used him to bring forth yet another monster. Spike couldn’t help but think that he would have been better off dying in that cave in Africa. At least then he would have done some good, right? He’d have died in pursuit of his soul. At least then no one else would have had to die at his hands.

 

“Don’t you dare even think about giving up.” Her voice was low, intense. It brought his head up so he could meet her eyes, something he hadn’t been able to do for more than a heartbeat or two. This time her gaze held him firmly. “That was not your fault.”

 

“Buffy—”

 

“It wasn’t.” She was fierce in her assertion. “Unless you want to argue that it was my fault, because that thing seems to be after me.”

 

“No!” Spike’s denial was vehement. “’Course not!”

 

“Good. Then you’ll listen to me?” Buffy’s voice softened, teasing him, as though she had no hope of Spike ever actually listening to her.

 

“Don’t have a choice, do I?” he asked. “Reckon I’m at your mercy for the moment.”

 

She smiled. “You’re right. You don’t have a choice. Let me get you a towel.”

 

The tub was full by now, and she shut the water off and turned to get a towel from the linen closet. Spike watched her move, noting that she was looking rather beat up herself, although not quite as bad as he was.

 

Of course, if she really had managed to kill the Turok Han, it was no wonder she was a bit sore.

 

“If you need any help,” she said, “just holler.”

 

Spike watched her leave, waiting until she shut the door behind her to lever himself up with the edge of the sink. His fingers fumbled with his jeans, and he just managed to get them off without passing out. A dark bruise discolored one hip, the color in stark contrast to the marble of his skin.

 

He was fairly sure that the femur had been fractured, if not broken. Spike wasn’t quite sure when it had happened. The last few—days? weeks?—were a blur of pain. He knew there were ribs broken, and his insides were bruised. A human would have been bleeding internally.

 

A human would have been dead within the first day.

 

Spike lowered himself into the hot water with a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper. It felt so good and hurt so bad all at once, and he clamped his lips together to avoid making any more noises. It wouldn’t do to have Buffy rushing in here to help him.

 

As the warmth of the water seeped into him, Spike let himself drift, exhaustion taking over. He didn’t think he’d ever been this tired, not even when he and Dru had escaped the mob in Prague. That hadn’t been pleasant, but at least he hadn’t been tortured for days on end by a “real” vampire.

 

He had no idea how much time had passed when Buffy’s voice called through the door, “Spike? Do you need any help?”

 

“No,” he responded, his voice hoarse. “Be out in a minute.”

 

“Okay. Take your time. I don’t want to rush you.”

 

Of course, now that Spike knew that Buffy was standing outside the bathroom door, waiting for him, he felt the need to hurry. He finished washing the rest of the accumulated grime off and pulled the plug, preparing to stand up.

 

That was when he realized that he might need Buffy’s help.

 

It was only by a great effort that Spike managed to stand, holding onto the wall for the support that he desperately needed. Instead of alleviating his aches, the hot water seemed to have broken down his carefully constructed defenses against the pain.

 

If Spike didn’t know better, he’d say the adrenaline had worn off, and now the hurting had set in, but he didn’t think that vampires had a working endocrine system. Maybe they had something that worked just as well. Or maybe it was the simple fact that now he knew he was going to survive, he didn’t have to fight against it all quite so hard.

 

In any case, there was no way he was going to be able to get his jeans back on, and Spike wrapped the towel that Buffy had left for him around his waist. He stumbled to the door, only to have Buffy open it, catching him before he could fall on his face.

 

“You know, you could have asked for help,” Buffy commented, sounding amused. Her arm wrapped securely around him as she led him over to the bed. “I got blood for you.”

 

Spike shook his head. “Thanks, but I can’t stay here, Buffy. I’m not taking your bed.”

 

“First of all, the only other available bed is in the basement,” she replied. “And I am not hauling your undead ass down there tonight. Secondly, it’s a big bed, and you’re in no shape to be doing anything but sleeping. I trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

 

Spike wondered if she would have been so willing to trust him if he weren’t weaker than a day-old kitten. “Yeah.”

 

“It’s just for tonight. And tomorrow,” she quickly added. “Tomorrow night we can worry about getting you down to the basement.”

 

“Right.” The blood she gave him was room temperature, but there was a lot of it, and he drank it down as quickly as possible. Spike had never been ashamed of being a vampire. It was what he was, and even with the soul, he didn’t think he’d want to give it up.

 

Even so, it twisted something inside him to have Buffy watching him drink it. To wonder whether she would ever view him as anything other than a monster. Spike let Buffy take the empty container, quickly dropping the damp towel on the floor and sliding between the covers as quickly as he was able.

 

Spike would have felt a little more comfortable if he’d had something to wear, but there wasn’t anything available, and he didn’t want to ask Buffy for anything else. Perhaps it was better not to call attention to the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything.

 

He realized as Buffy turned back towards the bed that she had changed and was now wearing flannel pajamas that covered her from neck to toes. Spike also didn’t miss the fact that while she got under the comforter, she didn’t get under the sheets.

 

He wasn’t sure if that barrier was a relief or a disappointment. Spike wasn’t sure he trusted himself around Buffy anymore.

 

“Good night, Spike,” she said as she flipped off the light.

 

Trying to lay as still as possible, not wanting to disturb Buffy more than necessary, Spike stared into the darkness. He was so tired, and yet he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. There was too much pain—both from his wounds and from being so close to her.

 

Her scent wrapped around him, teasing him. It only made sense that the one time she actually invited him into her bed it would only be because he was too hurt to do anything about it.

 

Buffy sighed quietly. “Spike?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“I will be in a few days.” In truth, Spike wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay since that night in the bathroom when he’d broken the only rule he’d held onto for over a hundred years. That night had broken him more completely than Buffy would ever know.

 

Not that he would ever tell her. Spike would never ask for her sympathy, not when he’d been the one so clearly in the wrong.

 

“No, I mean, are you _okay_?” she asked again, emphasizing the word in such a way to make it clear that she wasn’t talking about his physical well-being.

 

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that.” He honestly wasn’t playing dumb. Spike really didn’t have any idea of what she meant.

 

“Before—before the Bringers got you,” her voice caught, steadied. “You were ready to give up. You wanted me to kill you.”

 

Spike was quiet for a long, empty moment. “Yeah, I did.”

 

“Has that changed? Because I need you for this fight, Spike. I need you, and I can’t have you giving up on me.” Buffy took a deep shuddering breath that he had no trouble hearing. “I need everyone I can get, but if you can’t do this, tell me now. I’ll send you away.”

 

As if he could leave when she needed him. “If you need me, I’ll be right here, Buffy.”

 

The silence was almost comfortable after that, holding a hope that Spike had not dared to dream of. Maybe this thing between them could be repaired. Maybe, someday, Buffy might actually forgive him.

 

Spike didn’t dare hope that she might love him, no matter what that fey girl had said.

 

“You missed Christmas,” she said into the silence. Buffy didn’t feel sleepy, not with Spike so close to her. Not that she was afraid to sleep in his presence, more that she was still wired from the fight with the Turok Han, and having rescued him from the cave.

 

She wished she could tell him how good it was to have him back.

 

“Haven’t celebrated Christmas in…” Spike trailed off. He had celebrated Christmas with Dru, because she liked that. Not since then.

 

Buffy seemed to decide that he couldn’t remember the last time, rather than from any hesitation to name an old flame while lying in her bed. “I guess vampires don’t really celebrate the holidays.”

 

“No, not usually.” Spike didn’t bother telling her that he had never been your typical vampire. If she hadn’t figured that out already, she was never going to.

 

“You didn’t miss anything. We didn’t even have a tree this year. It seemed pretty pointless with the Bringers crashing through the front window every other week.” There was a pause in which her hand came to rest over his. Spike wasn’t certain if it was by accident or by design, but he didn’t dare move, not when she seemed content to talk to him. It was almost like before—before all the badness had begun between them.

 

Spike hesitated before offering the sympathy he felt her words deserved. “I’m sorry about that. I know it’s probably hard with your mum gone.”

 

“It was worse last year.”

 

He wanted to apologize yet again, although he wasn’t quite sure for what. Words would not repair what had been broken. “Buffy, I—”

 

“What was your last Christmas like?”

 

“My last Christmas?” Spike asked, confused.

 

“Yeah, what was it like?” she asked. “When you were—alive.”

 

Why she was asking him about his last Christmas as William, Spike had no idea, and he could usually figure Buffy out. Still, it seemed such a simple thing to give her. A story about a good man who had loved his mother.

 

“It snowed that year,” Spike began, trying to remember, to clear away the cobwebs of the years. He had never forgotten William, but he didn’t often like remembering what he had been. Not the monster or the man. “The snow covered everything the night before, and when we woke the next morning, everything was white and fresh. We had a tree, with candles on the branches, and a kissing bough, although there was no one to really enjoy it.”

 

“A kissing bough?” Buffy asked, amused.

 

Spike smiled in the darkness. “Like your mistletoe.”

 

“Then you didn’t have anyone to kiss?”

 

“No.”

 

Spike felt Buffy’s hand close around his own, her fingers twining with his. “Mom used to put up mistletoe,” she said. “Dad would catch her under it, like a game. That was a long time ago now.”

 

Lost moments and painful memories lay between them. Spike felt close to her in this moment, more intimate than any they’d shared while they’d been shagging each other. “What would you wish for this Christmas, Buffy?”

 

“Peace on earth?” she suggested with a bitter laugh. “Or—maybe snow. We had a white Christmas one year. I would love to see one again.”

 

“Maybe when this is all over,” he suggested.

 

Buffy squeezed his hand. “Maybe so. Go to sleep, Spike. You need the rest. I need you strong.”

 

Amazingly enough, Spike slept, Buffy’s hand still in his.

 

**Part II**

 

Buffy sat on her couch, in her lovely Roman apartment, listening to the sounds of Dawn getting ready in the bathroom. Her sister had been invited to a Christmas party. Buffy had decided to stay home.

 

She had no desire to go out and celebrate, not when the holiday felt so empty, and she had even less desire to prove a wet blanket for her sister’s fun.

 

Or was that rain on Dawn’s parade? Buffy knew she had a tendency to mix her metaphors.

 

It would have been easier to ignore the holiday season. Nothing was the same. When the Hellmouth had closed, Buffy had been glad. She had still been feeling the buzz from winning a battle she should have lost.

 

That’s how it had been for the first few weeks. There had been the constant activity that setting up the new Council had required, as well as figuring out what they were going to do with all the new Slayers. Buffy had been too busy to think, too busy to feel.

 

Too busy to grieve.

 

By the end of the summer, however, she had settled in Rome, mostly for Dawn’s sake. They had both enjoyed Rome, and there was a good school that had been willing to accept Dawn, even with the lack of permanent records. Her sister needed a stable home, and Buffy wanted to provide one. She thought she might be ready to provide one.

 

There had been no more running after that, however. Up until that point, Buffy could almost imagine that Spike would show up again. He would come walking out of the crowd, or sneak up behind her while she was out on patrol, or—something. The moment they settled into their apartment, Buffy had felt his absence.

 

Spike had sacrificed himself. The abstract concept became concrete in that moment.

 

The worst part was that she couldn’t talk to anyone about how she was feeling. Dawn had never really repaired her relationship with Spike, and Buffy didn’t feel comfortable talking about how much she missed someone she was sure Dawn didn’t like. Xander was in Africa, although she wouldn’t have gone to him, not about Spike, even though he might understand her grief better than anyone else.

 

Willow was happy with Kennedy in South America, and Giles had tried to have Spike killed. Buffy still hadn’t quite forgiven him for that. Besides, he was in England, busy with the new Council and Slayers.

 

Buffy had moped quietly for a couple of weeks, and then when Dawn’s questions about what was wrong grew more insistent, she’d put on her happy face.

 

Spike had given her this opportunity to start over—to have a new life. He, of all people, wouldn’t want her to mourn forever. She told herself that she was living for him.

 

On Christmas, though, Buffy couldn’t take the strain. Dawn would leave and have a good time with her friends. Buffy would allow herself the opportunity to wallow, to sift through her memories of what-had-been.

 

It wasn’t just Spike’s absence. Dawn was the only one around for the holidays this year, and Buffy was missing everyone who was absent with a vicious ache that wouldn’t be assuaged. She missed her best friends and the closeness they’d once had. She missed her mom. She missed Giles.

 

She missed Spike.

 

Perhaps it was Spike she missed the most, because he was the only one she would have felt comfortable telling any of this to. Spike would have understood, and he wouldn’t have been surprised at her weakness.

 

Maybe that’s what she had loved most about him. That he had allowed her the freedom to be weak—and to be strong.

 

Sometimes, Buffy allowed herself the fiction that Spike really had known that she loved him at the end, that he’d said what he had to get her to leave. Or that he’d known, but he hadn’t allowed himself to believe because he wouldn’t have been able to finish the job.

 

Deep in her heart, however, Buffy feared that Spike really hadn’t known, and he really hadn’t believed her. She had spoken the words too late, and he had died never knowing that he was loved.

 

She believed that Spike had found a certain peace at the end, though. That, at least, had been in his eyes. Buffy could be grateful that his sacrifice had brought him that much.

 

She understood that giving up your own life was the most amazing feeling.

 

That knowledge didn’t help.

 

Buffy stood, walking over to the window that looked out over the street. They were forecasting rain, but no snow. She’d hoped to get a white Christmas this year, now that she was out of southern California, where snow was a miracle.

 

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the glass, and wished for snow.

 

And for something else her heart couldn’t even put a name to.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike figured he must look pretty pathetic, smoking and drinking in a dive like this on Christmas. If he weren’t feeling so maudlin, he’d probably have gone to a demon bar where no one recognized the fact that it was a holiday.

 

Of course, that’s why he’d come to this particular bar, because he was feeling maudlin, and because he had no better place to be.

 

Spike was, after all, essentially homeless.

 

He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray in front of him and lit another.

 

It was all well and good for Angel and his gang. They all had each other, if they wanted company. That lot all treated him like a nuisance—much like the Scoobies had treated him after he’d gotten the chip. Not worth killing, but not worth doing anything else with either.

 

Their attitude galled him. He’d sacrificed his unlife to save the bloody world, and what did he get? Spike got brought back to live as a ghost for months, treated like some unwanted poltergeist. As if he hadn’t craved the silence of the grave. As if he’d asked to come back.

 

Spike hadn’t thought much about what might come after death. He supposed he’d known that hell was a possibility, given what he was and what he had done, but there had been the hope of heaven. He’d died to save the world; didn’t that help?

 

It had been a trick question, though. There had been nothing in between death and resurrection for him. One minute he’d been burning up in the Hellmouth, and the next he’d been standing in Angel’s office.

 

Pavayne’s antics seemed to indicate that hell was the more likely destination in his case, but Spike wasn’t so sure. After all, Pavayne had been feeding other souls to the pit in his place. So maybe it was only that Pavayne was going to hell, and the poor bastards he’d managed to snag got stuck with his bill.

 

Either that, or Pavayne had only managed to snag those already headed there in the first place.

 

Spike didn’t know, but knowing wouldn’t change anything. He didn’t do the right thing because it was going to get you somewhere or because he wanted to atone for his sins. There wasn’t anything that would make up for what he’d done.

 

Losing Buffy had taught Spike that much. There wasn’t anything in the world that could make up for losing someone you loved, and he’d visited that torment on thousands. Nothing could balance that, no matter how badly he’d like to.

 

Angel didn’t seem to understand that these days, although he might have once. He kept talking about how his soul was better, somehow nobler, because he’d suffered more. Because he’d had it thrust on him.

 

Spike snorted, tossing back another drink. Angel didn’t know what he was talking about. In Spike’s estimation, the other vampire had lost sight of the goal, sitting behind that big desk, forgetting about the job that a Champion was bound to do.

 

He wondered if he shouldn’t have packed it in, gone to Rome to take a chance with Buffy. Maybe she _had_ meant what she’d said, and Spike was an idiot for doubting her. He wouldn’t know until he asked.

 

If he hadn’t been tethered to L.A. at first, Spike would have gone. He would have found some way to get to her. The more time went by, though, the more he wondered, and the stronger his doubt grew. Had she meant it? And what would he do when he found her?

 

Buffy had chosen him as her Champion, but what did Spike really have to offer her?

 

Spike got the sense that things at Wolfram & Hart were going to come to a head. It was the same feeling he’d had last year in Sunnydale, knowing that something big was coming. He thought maybe he was needed here, whether or not anyone else would admit it.

 

So Spike figured he would stay and do whatever it was a Champion was supposed to do.

 

He stared into his whiskey, purchased with money he’d stolen from Angel. Spike wondered why he was missing Buffy so much, and why it was so much worse today, on Christmas. Vampires weren’t supposed to celebrate Christmas; it wasn’t a recognized holiday among the members of the undead. Missing Buffy was a nearly physical ache, but it wasn’t like he’d ever had her.

 

Not really, not in any way that counted.

 

Last Christmas, he’d been in the clutches of the First, and the holiday had come and gone by the time the Slayer had come to his rescue. He could still remember that night, Buffy telling him she needed him. Spike remembered her Christmas wish for snow, and he wondered if she’d get her wish this year.

 

Spike closed his eyes—blocking out the sights of the other scattered patrons, the woman dancing on the stage—and allowed himself to get lost in his memories. Even if he couldn’t quite allow himself to believe that Buffy had loved him, he knew that she had needed him. She had trusted him. At the end, perhaps, she had forgiven him.

 

For a moment, Spike could let himself believe that it was enough.

 

**Part III**

 

Buffy felt the chair tipping as she stretched to hang the mistletoe. She gave a little shriek of surprise as she struggled to find her balance, only to miss her footing on the arm of the chair. The next moment, a pair of strong hands gripped her waist, and Spike lifted her down, looking rather annoyed. “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

 

She held up the mistletoe in explanation. “Decorating. I’ve got to get it up there somehow.”

 

“Then get a ladder, or get your lanky sister to tack it up.”

 

Buffy’s eyebrows went up as he stalked away. Apparently Spike was going to be cranky. Great.

 

She checked herself from calling out something inflammatory in response. Buffy had spent months without Spike. Those memories still stung enough to have her wanting to avoid antagonizing him unnecessarily.

 

Although there were times when he definitely pushed her buttons.

 

It had been over six months since she’d found out Spike was alive—or undead. The coven of witches that Giles had worked so closely with in the past warned him of the impending battle in L.A. The warning was very nearly too late. It took time to call in the available Slayers and witches, including Buffy and Willow, and send them all to the battlefield.

 

The army of Slayers had arrived a couple of hours before sunrise, and they had leapt into the fray. There hadn’t been time for Buffy to look for Spike. The horde of demons had threatened to overwhelm them, but the Slayers had beaten them back again and again until the sun rose.

 

No one was quite sure why, but the remaining demons disappeared with the first rays of daylight, and Buffy finally had a moment to look for Spike.

 

She went into the Hyperion, looking around anxiously for any sign of the vampire, spotting Angel first among the general chaos. It seemed that Willow was leading the efforts to use the lobby as a triage center. “Angel!”

 

“Buffy.” He looked exhausted, his clothing torn and bloody, his face bruised. “You came.”

 

She smiled. “I never miss an apocalypse.”

 

He managed a smile, barely more than a twist of his lips. “It’s good to see you.”

 

Buffy put a comforting hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

 

“Wes is dead,” Angel murmured in response. “And Gunn. I don’t think he made it.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Buffy said. Then, just over Angel’s shoulder, she could see Spike standing in the lobby, staring at the two of them. He whirled and disappeared through a doorway. “Spike!” she called out. “Dammit.”

 

Angel called out after her, but Buffy ignored him. She wasn’t thinking about what had been said the year before, giving Angel hope she hadn’t meant to offer. Buffy wasn’t thinking about cookies or baking or even her on-again, off-again boyfriend back in Italy. All she was thinking about was Spike and reaching him before he did something stupid.

 

Like not telling her he was back among the living, so to speak.

 

She finally caught up to him in the hotel kitchen. Spike appeared to be looking for a way out, but the only available door was the one Buffy had just walked through, and she didn’t have any plans to let him go without a fight.

 

He looked the same. There was blood on his face, and he looked just as beaten and bruised as Angel, but he was the same old Spike. Buffy went from relieved to see him in one piece to pissed as hell in a heartbeat.

 

“What the hell were you thinking?” she demanded angrily.

 

Spike glared at her in response. “I could ask you the same thing,” he shot back. “Why don’t you go back and see to your _sweetheart_?”

 

He made the word sound dirty.

 

“What sweetheart, you bleached idiot?” Buffy retorted. “Has the peroxide finally killed off the rest of your brain cells?”

 

Spike snarled. “You’re here for him, aren’t you? You were looking pretty cozy there.”

 

Buffy rolled her eyes. “You are unbelievable! I was saying hello and asking Angel where you were. Or I would have asked if I hadn’t seen you turn tail and run.”

 

Spike faltered slightly. “What?”

 

“I came for you.” Buffy shrugged. “Well, and because it was an apocalypse, and I’m still a Slayer.”

 

Spike eyed her warily. “What about Angel?”

 

“It’s considered polite to say hello to people you haven’t seen in awhile,” Buffy responded. “Or have you forgotten that?”

 

He shuffled his feet. “And what about your boyfriend?”

 

Buffy frowned, trying to figure out who he could be referring to. “Huh?”

 

“The Immortal?”

 

“How do you know about him?”

 

Spike wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Never mind how I know. What about him?”

 

If Buffy hadn’t been so happy to see Spike, she would have smacked him. There was no way he could have known about the Immortal unless he’d been keeping tabs on her somehow. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

“You looked pretty friendly with him not that long ago,” Spike replied.

 

Buffy’s eyebrows went straight up. So, Spike had been in Rome, and he hadn’t even stopped in to say hello. “What do you want me to say, Spike? He and I go out sometimes, we have some fun, but it’s not serious.”

 

“Andrew said you were moving on.”

 

“I was trying to!” Buffy nearly shouted. “What did you expect, Spike? You were dead, and as far as I knew, you weren’t coming back. Why shouldn’t I try to live my life? I thought that’s what you would have wanted.”

 

All the anger drained out of him in that moment, and he turned away from her, his shoulders tight with tension. “I did. Thought you knew I was back. Figured Andrew would have told you.”

 

“He didn’t.” Buffy was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know why he didn’t, but I plan on finding out.”

 

Spike’s next words were mumbled, but Buffy could just make them out. “Told him not to say anything. I didn’t figure he’d follow through.”

 

Buffy shook her head. “I can’t believe you,” she said, unbelievably hurt. “You die and come back and don’t even tell me? After everything we’ve been through, you didn’t think I’d at least want to know that you were alive?”

 

“Still dead, Buffy.”

 

“You know what I mean!”

 

“I didn’t know if—” Spike broke off, obviously unwilling to go on. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“I meant it,” Buffy said, wondering if that would do the trick. Something had to break this impasse between the two of them. “I meant what I said.”

 

“You—really?” He looked at her then, and Buffy could see hope kindled in his eyes. “You didn’t move on?”

 

“Did you?”

 

He scoffed. “Right. I got my soul for you. You don’t move on from that, Buffy.”

 

“And you think I could move on that easily?” She stared at him. “I missed you.”

 

She couldn’t stand not touching him for one more moment. Buffy grabbed onto him for all she was worth, feeling a sense of relief when he returned her embrace. She could feel him shaking, and she knew she was probably trembling too.

 

“I missed you, too.”

 

That had been months ago, though. Buffy hadn’t quite dragged Spike back to Rome with her, but she’d used every weapon in her arsenal to persuade him to accompany her, short of force. Sometimes she wondered if Spike had come only because he knew their relationship pissed off Angel.

 

Things were good between them. Maybe not great, but they were good. Buffy just figured that it would take time to work out what their relationship was going to look like. It was new, so that only made sense.

 

And sometimes Buffy had to wonder if love was enough. If—as much as they loved one another—they just weren’t meant to be together.

 

It probably didn’t help that just as she and Spike were getting reacquainted, Buffy was finding herself with a renewed passion for being a Slayer and fighting the good fight. She’d been trying to help Giles with the rebuilt Council from Rome, and Buffy was trying to decide what kind of a role she wanted to play. Did she take an active part in whatever disturbances cropped up, or was her role going to be more passive, training and locating new Slayers?

 

It hadn’t been something she wanted to discuss with Spike, largely because she didn’t know what _he_ wanted, and there was no way Buffy wanted to scare him off. She would have been thrilled to have him declare that he wanted to be a part of this new thing, but he hadn’t. Spike had remained silent on his plans for the future.

 

Buffy just had to hope that those plans included staying with her.

 

She had wanted to do something special this Christmas, just her and Dawn and Spike. Now that Dawn was going to university, they didn’t get to see much of one another. Spike and Dawn had had the summer to get reacquainted, and Buffy thought that her little sister might have a better relationship with the vampire than she did most of the time.

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

Even though Giles had issued an invitation to spend the holidays with him—including a rather grudging invitation to Spike—Buffy had wanted to get away. She had a feeling that she wouldn’t get the quality time with Spike that she wanted. So they’d rented a little place on the outskirts of a town in the Lake District. This vacation was supposed to be a time for them to explore their options. Instead, Spike seemed to be intent on sulking. Buffy had no idea what to do.

 

“Hey, guys!” Dawn called out as she came through the front door. “You should have come down to the village, Buffy! The decorations are incredible.”

 

“We’ll have to go after dark, when they have the lights on,” Buffy replied. She hadn’t wanted to leave Spike behind to accompany Dawn when her sister left to explore the nearby village earlier in the day. Buffy didn’t think he would mind if she left for a while, but she’d thought they would have a chance to talk. Instead, Spike had slept, and she had tried to decorate.

 

Dawn shrugged. “Whatever. I’m sure it’ll be cool then, too. Where’s Spike?”

 

“In the kitchen, I think,” Buffy replied.

 

Dawn frowned, lowering her voice. “Is he still in a bad mood?”

 

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah.”

 

“You know, I can hear the both of you! Vampire!” Spike’s voice floated out of the kitchen, and the sisters exchanged a look.

 

“We wouldn’t have to talk behind your back if you weren’t in such a horrible mood all the time,” Dawn yelled.

 

Spike was silent, and Buffy sighed, trying to remind herself that Christmas was better with Spike around, even if he was in a bad mood. At least she wasn’t alone for the holidays again, and neither was Spike.

 

“I’m going to get cleaned up,” Dawn said. “Is Spike cooking?”

 

“I’m assuming so,” Buffy replied. “We’ll eat in about an hour, either way. Do me a favor and hang the mistletoe first?” Buffy handed the decoration to her sister and then wandered back to the kitchen. “You want to tell me what’s going on, or are you going to act like the Grinch for the rest of the week?”

 

Spike stood in front of the stove, looking down into the blood he was warming. “I’m fine.”

 

“Because you’ve been in a bad mood for the last week, and you haven’t been happy for the last couple of months, Spike,” Buffy continued, as though he hadn’t replied. “Is it me? Do you not want to be here?”

 

“No.”

 

Buffy swallowed. It didn’t sound like Spike meant it. “If you’re sticking around for me, and not for you, please tell me,” she said, bracing herself. The little niggling doubt that had been in the back of her mind for the last six months exploded.

 

He hadn’t told her he was back. He hadn’t come to her. She’d had to convince him to come to Italy with her. Maybe Spike was here more because it was what _she_ wanted rather than being what he wanted.

 

Maybe Spike wasn’t in love with her anymore.

 

“Please don’t lie to me.”

 

Spike turned to face her, seeing the hurt and the fear on her face. “Buffy—” He fell silent. Spike didn’t know how to describe how he was feeling—like he was at loose ends, like he had no purpose. A few months ago he’d been part of a team, trying to save the world. Now, he was the Slayer’s boyfriend, playing second fiddle to the real hero.

 

It wasn’t the sidekick gig that was getting to him. Spike had never really been the leader. He’d had minions, but he’d been a slave to Dru’s whims. He had followed Buffy willingly, but she had wanted him there. Had needed him there. In L.A., he’d been his own man, although he’d gone along with Angel’s plan.

 

Here, though—there was none of that.

 

“It’s not about you, luv,” Spike finally said. “It’s—been feeling a bit at loose ends is all.”

 

Buffy took a deep breath. “I don’t think I understand.”

 

“It’s hard to explain.”

 

“Try?”

 

“What am I doing here, Buffy?” Spike finally asked. “I was doing something in L.A. I had a purpose. Now what am I?”

 

Buffy didn’t know what to say. She wanted to walk away from this conversation. She was scared to death of where this was going. The Slayer thought she understood what Spike was going through. She’d felt the same way for the first few months she lived in Italy, trying to decide what she wanted to do, what she wanted to be.

 

She had lived with a sense of constant tension for so long, she had no idea what to do with herself when the battle was over.

 

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I don’t think that’s a question I can answer for you.” The silence stretched between them, and Buffy took a leap of faith. “What do you want to do?”

 

Spike laughed shortly. “Hell if I know.” He reached out to touch her cheek. “I’m sorry, luv. I’m ruining your holiday.”

 

“It’s okay,” Buffy replied. “As long as you’re here.”

 

“I’m here,” he promised. “That’s about the only thing I know right now.”

 

Buffy captured his hand, holding it in place. “Maybe you should decide where we go next, then.”

 

Spike looked uncertain. “You sure about that? What about your Watcher?”

 

She shrugged. “Dawn’s not living at home anymore, Spike. It’s just us that we have to worry about. We could ask Giles if he needs us somewhere, or we could just—go. We could pack up the apartment and just travel for a while.”

 

“You think we could find some trouble to get into?” he asked a little plaintively. “I miss—”

 

“The fight?” Buffy just smiled. “Don’t you think I understand?”

 

He shrugged. “Thought you wanted a normal life. I figured…” Spike trailed off. He still wondered what they were doing together most of the time. Still wondered if it was him she really wanted. Spike had seen her standing in the lobby of the Hyperion that day with Angel, touching his arm in a tender gesture that had been easy to mistake for something other than friendship. Especially given what had happened the last time he’d seen Angel and Buffy together.

 

She’d laughed at him later, pointed out that Angel’s life was in L.A., and that he had a kid nearly her age. Even if Buffy had feelings for Angel, she couldn’t be with him.

 

Spike hadn’t told her that those words make him feel like second best all over again. If she couldn’t have Angel, Spike would be the best substitute.

 

Buffy had been so insistent on wanting him with her, though. She had assured him through a hundred different words and deeds that she loved him.

 

Spike figured it was one of those situations where you had to be careful what you wished for. He’d wanted Buffy, and now he had her. Strange, but it wasn’t anything like he’d dreamed it would be.

 

Spike had never known that there could be anything he wanted more, but right now he wanted to do something worthwhile as much as he wanted to be with her. He’d wanted to give Buffy what she seemed to want so badly, but he hadn’t known that it would feel as though a piece of himself was dying—being starved and stifled.

 

This vacation had been a nice idea. They were supposed to talk about their future—but Spike didn’t know if they had one. They had come to get some time to themselves, as a family—but he wasn’t so sure that he wanted this.

 

Spike needed a purpose, and Buffy seemed to crave peace. He hadn’t been able to help thinking that they were going in opposite directions yet again.

 

And yet he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of leaving her.

 

The funny part about wanting Buffy—or wanting to be with her—was that Spike had never given much thought to what would come after. There had always been an emergency, an apocalypse. He’d never thought there would come a day when being at Buffy’s side and being in the middle of a battlefield didn’t coincide, at least occasionally.

 

Now, of course, they both had a choice. Buffy had chosen to stay out of the fray for the most part. She had come to L.A. because every Slayer had been needed, but she wasn’t fighting on a daily basis. Spike had assumed that she didn’t want to.

 

Of course, they hadn’t really talked about it. That’s what this trip was for. Still, Spike knew that Buffy had done enough. He didn’t want to push her into the fight again, not if she wanted a rest, and yet he wasn’t willing to just let go of his own desires anymore either.

 

It was that inner battle that had him snarling and out of sorts.

 

Buffy watched the emotions play over his expressive face, and then said quietly, “Whatever you want, Spike, we’ll find a way to work around it.” At his wince, she modified her statement. “I just mean that we’ll find a way to get what we both want, without giving up anything that we really need.”

 

“You’re retired,” he pointed out.

 

Buffy shrugged. “I took a break. There’s always evil to fight. There’s always going to be.”

 

“I don’t want—” Spike stopped, struggling to put it into words. He never had any trouble telling other people what they were thinking or feeling. It was just explaining his own needs where things got so twisted between heart and mouth. “I don’t want you to feel like—like you’re not done, luv. You—you deserve the time out, if that’s what you want, but I—”

 

Buffy laughed and sighed, almost in one breath. “Stupid vampire. Is that what has you so twisted up? You used to try and tell me that we were the same.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she shook her head. “We were, in a way. We still are. I had a break, Spike. That’s really all I wanted. From here on out, though, I think too much quiet would make me die of boredom. I want to get back to working as a Slayer, I just wasn’t sure what that would look like. There’s definitely plenty of work for the both of us.”

 

Spike felt like an idiot—not a new occurrence where Buffy was concerned. The relief that hit him was powerful. “Buffy, I—”

 

Her own relief was too great for words. She pulled his head down, kissing him thoroughly, teasing, caressing—reminding him without words that they shared a dual fate.

 

Maybe they always had.

 

“It’s snowing!” Dawn’s shout interrupted their kiss, her footsteps thundering down the hall. “You guys have to look!” She stopped short in the kitchen door, rolling her eyes and giving a mock-snort of disgust. “Can you guys not do that for fifteen minutes?”  


Buffy gave her sister a quelling look. “It’s not our fault if you walk in on us whenever we’re kissing, Dawnie.”

 

Dawn seemed to contemplate making a snide remark, and then changed her mind when she saw the smile on Spike’s face. He really hadn’t been smiling much lately. “So are you guys coming?”

 

“What about dinner?” Spike asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

She shrugged. “We can eat at the pub. It’s dark enough, and the lights will be out.”

 

Buffy and Spike exchanged a look, and he shrugged. “Up to you, pet. It’s your vacation.”

 

“No,” she corrected him. “It’s ours.”

 

They all got their coats on, a little of Dawn’s enthusiasm beginning to infect Spike and Buffy as well. The pub wasn’t too far away, and even with the snow drifting down, it wasn’t all that cold. Spike kept an arm around Buffy’s shoulders, allowing her to bury her hand in his coat pocket. They cast one shadow across the snow, and Spike smiled, remembering Buffy’s Christmas wish, thinking that those days felt like another lifetime. “You finally got your wish, luv,” he said softly.

 

“What?” Buffy asked, frowning as she tried to remember. Dawn was meandering ahead of them, humming a song under her breath. Buffy thought it sounded like a Christmas carol of some sort. “Oh, that one,” she said, recalling Spike’s question. He’d been so broken that night, and she’d been able to offer him so little in comparison to what he gave her. Buffy wondered how long it would take before she felt as if she had given him enough to repay all he’d done.

 

Maybe she never would. Maybe that’s what real love looked like—giving with no thought of repayment. Odd that a vampire would be the one to teach her that lesson.

 

“I guess so,” she said, looking out over the landscape, thinking that all the snow in the world wouldn’t have made up for Spike’s absence. “So what’s your Christmas wish?”

 

Spike just pulled her closer. “I already got it.”

 

For the first time in a long time, it looked to be a merry Christmas for both of them.


End file.
